


All Things In Moderation

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 20:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam gets mindbendingly drunk. Dean thinks this gives him the upper hand. And Dean would be wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Things In Moderation

**Author's Note:**

> This story started off as one thing, but then drunk!Sammy got involved and it was all downhill from there.

All the lights in the room were off.

Dean slid out of the car, pulling the bag of groceries behind. He leaned against the driver's door, puzzled, peering at the window to their room.

They were the only guests on this side of the motel. Not a lot of call for motor courts in February this far north. Outside, it was quiet and dark, the air buzzing with the promise of snow. Peace hung through with anticipation, the lights of the city far enough south to make the stars hum between the clouds. But.

Why would the room be dark? It was only like 9:30--way too early for even an old lady like Sam to be asleep. And Sam hadn't said anything about going out. In fact, when Dean left, he'd been ensconced like a spider in a web of printouts, his laptop hung heavy in his lap, highlighter caught between his teeth.

Dean walked up the steps to the door, leaned on the nearest pillar for a moment. Told his heart to stop pounding so damn loud so he could think. So he could hear.

Part of him was up in arms, sirens shrieking and guns blaring, self-recrimination battling with fury, ready to believe that Sam had finally left for good this time, made good on a long string of threats and promises, half-truths and almost-lies.

But the hunter part of him knew better. Was wary of the situation but not worried about it. Was hyper-aware but not hysterical. Because it didn't feel like something was really wrong. Not exactly. Something in the air was just--off.

He stood still for a minute. Listened.

Just then a weird, eerie howl sank under the door and echoed in the deserted parking lot. He froze. Then the howl pitched up into a higher gear, one that he recognized, one that was--

Sam. Laughing like a deranged fucking lunatic.

He got the key in the lock, pushed the door open. Sam was sort of sitting on his bed, the one nearest the TV--which was on, blinking and weird, babbling away in game show speak--his body folded over as he cackled, pitching precariously to the side, apparently infatuated with _Family Feud_.

Dean slammed the door, let his breath out in a rush. Sam didn't even flinch, just kept hooting away like a damn hyena. So Dean snapped on the overhead light, shoving the room into soupy yellow brightness.

"Ahh!" Sam yelped, startled. He teetered on the edge of the bed, lost his balance, and disappeared over the far side, landing with a muffled thud.

Dean set the groceries down by the door. Carefully. Really fucking deliberately.

He cased the room, which was now a complete disaster--clothes strewn everywhere, papers sliding all over the floor, Sam's bed stripped, the blankets in a heap under the desk.

"Ow!" said Sam in slow motion.

"Sam," Dean said, calmly. Really fucking deliberately.

Sam's head popped up from the other side of the bed. His face was flushed, his hair wild and full, and he was happy as hell. "Hi!" he chirped.

"Sam," Dean said again, measuring the word carefully in his mouth, taking a step forward. "What. In the fuck. Is going on here?" He locked his face into a tight little smile that said: for your sake, my guess better be wrong.

Sam nodded, his big head swinging on his shoulders. "I think it's on after Match Game," he said with certainty.

"Uh huh," Dean said dubiously. He waited, watched Sam stumble to his feet, an overgrown Bambi in work boots.

He made a good go of it at first, but one enormous knee knocked the other at the last minute and he reeled. "Whoaa!" he wheezed, flapping his arms, swinging his body around and. Made it. He beamed at Dean, thrilled to be upright.

Dean stared him down. "Are you drunk?"

"Yes!" Sam shouted, throwing his arms over his head like he'd won a fucking gold medal or something.

"Dude! I was gone for like an hour! What the hell?"

The television erupted, some ancient audience in hysterics over Richard Dawson's innuendo.

Sam thought about this, hard, biting his lip in concentration. "You said you wouldn't be gone long," he said slowly, the words dipping out of his mouth. "Sooooo---I had ta drink fast. Right?" He seemed to think that was hilarious.

"Uh huh," Dean said again. Really not liking where this was going. "And what exactly did you drink there, sport?"

Sam swung around, whipping his head way too fast and stumbling, falling back against the desk. He laughed again, high and loud and tight in his chest, and flung his arm towards the bathroom. "I threw it away," he announced.

Dean pushed by him. Dug the bottle out of the trashcan and held it up, incredulous. "Damn it, Sam, I've been saving this for like a month!"

The buzzer sounded and the audience sighed, disappointed.

Sam grinned, his eyes wide and full and _good god_ , Dean thought, _it was a miracle he was still vertical. Well, semi-vertical_.

"I know!" Sam said cheerfully.

"And you drank it. You drank a fifth of whiskey in an hour."

Sam nodded so hard that he threw his balance off. "Yes!" he shouted again, triumphant, hurling himself face first across the back of the desk chair.

Dean dropped the bottle back in the trash. Tried not to laugh. "And how are you not dead?"

Sam tilted his head, his body still bent over the chair. "Good genes," he said solemnly. Then he started giggling. And pitching backwards towards the floor. His leg caught the TV cord and ripped it from the wall, cutting Gene Rayburn off mid-stride.

Dean watched him fall, a train wreck in slow motion.

"Ow," said Sam from the floor, still giggling, his voice bouncing around in the sudden silence. He rolled back and forth, caught between the chair and the wall, banging his hip on the wall, barking his knee on the chair. "Ow!" he said again, snorting, still rolling.

Dean leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms. "Dude, you done?"

"Hmmmmm," Sam mused. He twisted experimentally and got an arm snagged in the blankets under the desk. Struggled briefly. "Hmmm." He came to a stop, slowly. Looked up at Dean, squinting.

"Oh for," Dean muttered. He bent down and tried to grab Sam by the shoulders, tried to wrench him free of the sheets, but Sasquatch started wiggling around again and he slipped out of Dean's grasp, shaking with laughter, his head rolling around between Dean's boots.

"Sam. SAM," Dean barked. "Chill the fuck out. Come on, you gotta get up."

Sam thought this, too, was hilarious, and banged his shoulder on the desk for emphasis. "Ouch!" he barked, cascading back into giggles.

"You are way too big for this," Dean grunted, finally getting a good grip and yanking. "Get up!"

Sam sat up, swaying, trying to catch his breath, and let Dean tug him to his feet. They wavered, Sam's weight threatening to dump them both back on the floor. Dean grabbed on to Sam's elbows and they slowed, steadied, stood still.

Dean sighed. "Ok, sunshine. Cold shower for you. Then water. Then bed."

Sam opened his mouth wide, tried to say something, but the movement sent him spinning, pulling Dean with him, and Dean used the momentum to turn them around and kind of push Sam towards the bathroom.

Bad call.

Sam took two huge steps forward, stumbled, and crashed into the doorframe. "Ow!" he mumbled into the wall. "Dean. That hurt." He looked back, his features sagging, his face starting to crumble, and _ok, no_ , Dean thought. No weepy drunks for him tonight. Not when he was so sober that it hurt.

He caught Sam in his arms and hauled him into the bathroom, banging his own knees into the toilet and wedging Boozy McBoozer against the counter. "Sam," he said firmly. "Sammy. Look at me."

Sam looked down, and oh yeah, he was pitching right over into waterworks. Shit.

Dean wound an arm around his waist and squeezed. "It's okay. I'm here. You're fine, ok? You're fine."

Sam sniffled, swaying in Dean's grasp. "Hurt," he said in a small voice, his lips twisting.

"No, baby, you're not hurt. You just banged your head, that's all. You're fine. See?" Dean stretched his hand up and ran it through Sam's hair. "No blood or anything. You're okay." He showed Sam his hand. "See?"

Sam stared stupidly at Dean's palm for a minute. "Okay?" he repeated, his mouth moving out of sync.

"Yeah, you're okay. But you need a cold shower." Dean stroked Sam's hair. "It'll make your head feel better."

Sam thought about this, leaning into Dean's hand, eyelids drooping. "'Kay," he sighed finally.

"Awesome," breathed Dean. He nudged Sam backwards, balancing his back against the counter, and let go. Sam didn't immediately pitch over, which Dean counted as a victory, but his face was still wobbly and weird, exhaustion and euphoria fencing across his features. His eyes met Dean's and he smiled, let euphoria win.

Dean took that as his cue.

"Ok, Sammy," he said gently, edging towards the door. "You're good. Just get in the shower for a while and you'll feel better. I promise."

Sam nodded, his head bouncing on his neck, his face starting to crack under the weight of a truly epic shit-eating grin. "Shower," he repeated, giggling. "Mmmhmm. 'Kay."

Dean slipped out and closed the door behind him. Heard the shower start. Breathed a sigh of relief.

He sat heavily on the bed. Shoved his hands through his hair, muttering. Only Sammy. Boy was a fucking teetotaler 95% of the time and a goddamn lunatic drunk the rest. Jesus.

All things in moderation: that was Dean's motto.

Most of the time.

He stood up, feeling old, responsible and sane and deliberate and all that other stuff he’d started to hate, that he'd been saving the whiskey to forget. For when all of that shit got too loud inside his head. When it started messing with his ability to do whatever had to be done: that's what the whiskey had been for.

And he'd come close, so fucking close to drinking it the other night after they'd gotten into a shouting match at some crappy bar two towns over, out in the parking lot where all the streetlights were broken out, both of them just messed up enough to feel bad about it the next morning, just enough to know exactly what they were saying, enough to inflict maximum damage with minimal effort.

He started moving mechanically, laying things out, preparing for Operation: Put Sam To Bed Without Bloodshed. He went for Sam's bag and dug around for a clean shirt. Found a clean pair of boxers.

Sam had stormed off for the seven hundredth time, marching into the shadows making noises about how he was leaving for good, how this wasn't working, how Dean was smothering him, blah blah blah hostile. Dean had heard it all before. Hell, Sam had said all it before, almost verbatim, had even meant it once or twice. But it seemed like his heart wasn't really in it that night; it felt like he was going through the motions of flipping out. Like it was expected of him, or something.

The thing was:

Even when Dean knew Sam wasn't serious, knew he was just a little drunk and depressed and taking it all out on the nearest living target--even then, it scared the shit out of him, hearing Sam talk like that. And he reacted accordingly, every time, swearing and yelling and feeling like he was drowning, fighting towards a surface that he'd never reach, that Sam would keep shoving him back under every. single. time he got comfortable enough to put his head above it.

He kept moving, preparing. Pulled a bottle of water from the bag of groceries. Made a half-hearted attempt to put the sheets back on Sam's bed.

So, yeah. He'd really wanted to fucking inhale that whiskey when he'd gotten back to the room, just pour it down his throat so he didn't have to think, so he’d sleep, so he wouldn't wait up for Sam like he always did. Like Sam knew he would. Because why else would he stay out until 3:30 in the morning, unless he knew he was making Dean crazy, unless he was trying to hurt him the best way he knew how: with absence.

But he hadn't drunk it. He'd just rolled up in his sheets and steamed, watching the door, listening for the key in the lock. And look what that temperance had gotten him: Sam drunk off his ass and him stone cold sober. And guess who'd have to clean up the mess.

He took all the breakables off the nightstand, the drinking glasses off the desk. Hid the laptop.

Stopped.

Listened.

The shower was still running. Ok. But it sounded wrong, somehow. And Sam had been in there a while. Maybe too long. He had a sudden flash: a full-color image of Sam passed out and bleeding on the bathroom floor, drowning in his own vomit or--

He went for the door and his feet sank into the tattered carpet, which was heavy with water.

Water that was sliding out from under the bathroom door.

He shoved it open, that image of Sam broken and bleeding in his eyes, and ran smack into a huge cloud of steam. “Sam!” he bellowed, fear pushing up the volume. “Cold shower! What part of cold do you not–“

He stopped short.

Sam wasn't lying in a pool of his own vomit. So, win there.

And he was in the shower--but he was also fully clothed. And sound asleep.

Dean was so startled that the profanity got stuck in his throat.

The shower curtain was wide open, and the showerhead tilted just enough so that whatever water Sam’s clothes weren’t absorbing was falling onto the bathroom floor, pooling in the uneven dips in the cracked tile, gathering by the door and streaming out into the bedroom.

Dean dove for the taps, remembering how to curse, and twisted them closed. Sam didn't move, even as the water slowed, stopped. He was leaning head first into the wall, his forehead resting under the showerhead. Snoring. And fucking drenched. A gigantic, sodden, drunken mess.

Fantastic.

Dean shook his head. Pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath.

Tried to remember all the weird shit he'd pulled while he was drunk. All of the crap that Sam had put up with, all that he'd had done to keep Dean in one piece. The fights he'd pulled Dean out of. The tabs he'd paid. The pool games he'd won in a pinch when Dean had one too many.

But Sammy had taken things to a whole other level of crazy here. What did he think this was, "The Naked Time"? Jesus, if he woke up thinking he was D'Artanagan, Dean was going break his saber in two.

He sat on the closed toilet seat and dug his palms into his eyes. Listened to water whispering across the tile, moving relentlessly towards the bedroom. Listened to Sam snore. Sort of hoped he would wake up on his own, stone cold sober and ready to apologize.

No dice. Never that easy.

He got up, grabbed Sam's arm a little harder than he had to. "SAM," he barked.

Sam's eyes flickered open in slow motion, his eyelashes fluttering like some goddamn Disney princess. "Dean?" he said, blinking. "Wha--?" He startled, bolted upright, and clocked himself on the showerhead. "Ow!" he shouted, reeling, and it took all of Dean's strength to keep Sam from falling over, to keep himself from pitching headfirst into the tub, to keep them both from needing stitches.

"Calm down," Dean ordered, digging his fingers into Sam's bicep, his hand sliding over the wet flannel. "Damn it! Relax."

Sam turned to him, eyes wide, water dripping from his face, catching on his lips. "Wet!" he said, utterly indignant.

"Yeah, no shit. You forgot to take your clothes off, Einstein."

Sam peered down at his soaked jeans. His waterlogged shoes. Back at Dean, his face soft and open and damn, if he didn't look 12 years old. Despite the whiskey breath. "Dean," he whined, shifting, sloshing under Dean's hand.

Dean closed his eyes again. Sighed. Resigned.

"Ok, ok," he said. "C'mon, Sammy." He reached for the buttons on Sam's shirt. "You just gotta take this crap off. Then you can go to sleep." The slick snaps slipped through his fingers and he cursed. "Little help here," he said, glaring up at Sam.

Sam stretched out his hands, his arms swimming through molasses. Pulled half-heartedly at his sleeves. "Hmmm," he rumbled, tugging. "'S wet."

Dean rolled his eyes, knocked Sam's hands away. "If you're not gonna help, at least be still."

Sam made a sad little noise, and whatever slivers of patience Dean had left went up in smoke, swallowed the steam that still hung in the air. He gritted his teeth as he lost his grip again. "Damn it. Come. On." He gave up trying to attack each snap at once and instead caught his fingers in the front of Sam's shirt and pulled. The snaps shot open together with a satisfying pop.

"Finally," he sighed, reaching up and trying to tug the flannel over Sam's bare shoulders. "C'mon, almost got it."

"Dean," Sam said again. But this time his voice was deep and heavy in his throat. A pulse shot through Dean's spine. A red flag. He looked up, saw Sam's eyes, dark and full and cloudy and--

"Sammy," he said warningly, his hands trapped between hot skin and wet flannel. "Not a good time for that right now."

Sam just grinned, that goofy dangerous grin, and wrapped his arms around Dean's waist. Pulled until Dean had to wind his arms around Sam's neck to keep from pitching over, until his shins were pinned against the edge of the tub, until Sam swooped down and kissed him, water sliding down his head, dripping from his hair and falling over Dean's face. His hands soaked through the back of Dean's shirt and he dug his fingertips in, humming, pushing, ticking each vertebrae in turn.

The water hadn't washed away the smell of whiskey on his skin, on his hands as he reached for Dean's face, and it sure as hell hadn't touched his tongue, his teeth, his lips, which were nipping, tugging, licking, demanding, moaning in this very pleasant, persistent way that held the promise of something more. Dean's knees started shaking. Kissing Sam was like sticking your tongue in a glass of Jack on a good day; now Dean felt like his whole head was lodged inside the fucking bottle.

In some sad scrap of his mind, he wondered if he shouldn't be a little more concerned about this whole scenario.

He let his head fall back and Sam just about jumped into his mouth, stole his breath and worked wet hands under his shirt.

So Sam had swung from falling down drunk and stupid to grabby and hot and eager. Okay. Potentially dangerous. Potentially awesome.

He hooked his fingers into the back of Sam's belt and tugged, pulled until Sam was draped over him, until he was practically drowning.

But he was the responsible one, damn it. The sober one, for once. Shouldn't he be more worried about getting Sam sobered up, about getting them both ready to face whatever evil shit the world was cooking up for them tomorrow and the next day and the next than he was about seeing how far he could push this, how much he could get out of a drunk and disorderly Sammy who seemed completely unable to control himself, who couldn't keep his hands off of Dean's skin, couldn't untangle his mouth from Dean's, couldn't keep himself from rocking his cock against Dean's thigh?

Probably.

Sam stroked Dean's tongue with his own and growled so loud that Dean's ears rang with it. Pushed his hips forward and knocked Dean's cock with his own.

Oh, definitely.

They were wrapped together, entwined, soaking in water and whiskey, and fuck if Dean didn't want to just stop thinking. Stop worrying. Stop questioning why and start embracing everything that Sam was willing to give him. Was trying to give him, if he'd just shut off his stupid brain and let Sam's cock do the thinking for the both of them.

He pushed his head back, gasping, still fighting it, and holy hell, Sam looked almost otherworldly: hair plastered and black against his head, eyes wide and felonious, mouth hanging slack, bitten red and full.

"Dean--" Sam breathed into his face, pressing against his hip, and Dean had no defense against that, not then, not ever.

"Okay, okay," he managed. "But take this wet shit off. Please."

Sam let him go, knocking Dean's hands away, shoving him back. Peeled off his flannel and dropped it into the tub. Looped his fingers around his belt buckle. Looked down at Dean through hooded lashes.

Dean's pulse jumped. "Sammy," he managed, backing away.

Sam just laughed at him, staggering into swagger, and stepped out of tub, his eyes burning into Dean's face.

Dean kept retreating, trapped himself against the counter. Completely accidentally on purpose.

Sam advanced on him, grinning like a wolf, spraying water everywhere. He grabbed Dean's hands and draped them over his belt buckle. Leaned down until their mouths were almost touching. Almost. "Help," he murmured.

"You are such a bastard," Dean growled. "Remind me to leave you on the floor next time." He yanked the belt free and opened his mouth, an invitation. A demand.

Sam chuckled and arched his hips into Dean's hands where they lay still slung against his fly. Dean stroked him, sliding his hand up and down, Sam's cock hot and damp and trapped against his palm. He shoved his head up, trying to catch Sam's mouth with his tongue, but Sam ignored him, twisted away instead and tucked Dean's head under his chin. He slammed his hands on the counter, trapping Dean's body between them, and started to thrust, hard, panting into Dean's hair. But the wet fabric caught him, chafed, hurt, and he stopped, growling in frustration.

"Dean," he hissed, bucking, and for a moment, Dean's brain kind of broke: he was completely overwhelmed, so full of Sam's voice his smell the weight of his body that he couldn't catch his breath.

All at once, Sam snarled something Dean couldn't understand and grabbed his shoulders, shoving, pushing Dean down until he collapsed, until his knees cracked on the wet tile, until his face was flush with Sam's crotch. Which Sam helpfully pushed against his mouth, still hissing, until the zipper caught on Dean's lips.

Dean grabbed the zipper, yanked it down. He wedged his hand in into the opening, tried to peel the denim from Sam's hips, but it stuck, fixed itself to his skin. Sam growled, squeezed Dean's shoulders in frustration, shaking, which was really not helpful, but then his fist found Sam's cock and Dean tugged it free, pulling it through cotton and denim and out into the air, through his fingers and over his lips. Sam groaned, loud and wet and greedy, and started fucking Dean's mouth, his fingers digging in, his nails biting through Dean's t-shirt.

Dean went with it, letting Sam guide him. The counter was cutting into his neck and he was drenched and the bathroom was starting to get really fucking cold but--

But.

He had Sam in his mouth, in his heart, and damn if anything else mattered.

Sam braced his hands on Dean's shoulders and leaned back, then snapped his hips forward, once, twice, then again and again, his cock sliding across Dean's tongue, working deep into Dean's throat.

"Yeah," he moaned, pleasure dripping from his voice. "Oh fuck, Dean, fuck--"

He pushed harder, faster, and suddenly Dean couldn't breathe. He tried to pull his head up, to tug his mouth free, but Sam wouldn't let him, just twisted his hands around Dean's head, his fingers biting into the back of his skull, and now there wasn't a damn thing Dean could do but hang on to Sam's hips, string his fingers through the wet belt loops and try not to fucking choke.

But now his whole body was trembling from the force of Sam slamming into him and his cock was threatening to strike out on its own, leaping and pulsing with the satisfied noises that Sam was making, with the knowledge that Sam was using him, was wringing all the pleasure he wanted out of Dean's mouth, was thinking of only of himself and holy _fuck_ was that hot, and if he didn't stop thinking about it he was liable to come without being touched and damn that would be such shame and, oh--what the hell was Sam saying?

"Dean," Sam was panting, his voice darkening, falling low into his chest. "Yeah, Dean. Take my cock. Let me see you take my cock, baby."

Dean groaned, felt himself swell, his breathing thicken, and if there was a more beautiful sound than Sam talking dirty, it might have stopped his fucking heart.

He felt Sam's fingers scrape his jaw, felt his head free, and he looked up. Sam was staring down at him, practically purring as he watched his cock slide over Dean's lips, his eyes heavy and certain and god Dean was ready, was so ready to come that he had to close his eyes, had to close some little part of himself off from Sam for fear of losing himself completely, of falling farther beneath the surface than he ever had before and never wanting to come back up. Of drowning, of dying, and not giving a shit as long as it meant giving Sam what he needed.

"Mmmmmm," Sam sighed, his voice a weary, fucked-out slush, shoving his cock forward one last time, letting himself fall apart inside Dean's mouth. "Love you."

Dean swallowed, gasping in relief, falling back into his body with a thud as Sam worked himself free. His hands fell from Sam's waist, still curled into claws, and he sagged against the floor, soaking in water and sweat and a need that fucking hurt, that made his bones feel like Jello. For a moment, he just lay there, tasting Sam on his tongue, his head his cock shouting so loud that his fucking teeth rattled.

He felt Sam's hands on his shoulders, felt himself being tugged, but he couldn't move, couldn't help, and he just fell back, his head resting on Sam's boots.

Sam chuckled and reached for him again, getting a better grip and lifting until Dean was swaying in his hands. Dean was afraid to look at him, to let their bodies touch, for fear of bursting like a fucking teenager and embarrassing himself and losing out on having Sam touch him and oh shit if he kept thinking like that he really was going to--

Sam spun him around and kind of frog-marched him out of the bathroom, fast. Dropped him on the stripped bed and opened his fly before Dean could think, which was good, because if he'd been able to think he wouldn't have been able to stand Sam's hands on him before his mouth fucking enveloped Dean's cock, stroked him gently with his tongue. The frenzy was gone and all that was left was that beautiful dirty mouth on him and wet tangled hair beneath his fingers and the echo of Sam's voice in his ears.

"Sammy Sammy Sammy," he breathed, his voice rising up from his chest like an old ghost, shaky and uncertain. Sam didn't answer, just slid his fingers under Dean's shirt and brushed his fingers over Dean's chest, his fingertips whispering over Dean's skin.

And that was just enough, just right, and Dean came so hard that his body flew up off the mattress, his body bucking with the force of whatever the fuck it was that Sam could do to him, so hard that he didn't have time to scream or moan or anything, his mouth falling open as Sam drank him down but no sound escaping. Just.

Sam slid up beside him and collapsed. Pushed his head onto Dean's shoulder and kissed his neck, sliding into sleep as Dean fell over, too, aware enough to register that they were both soaking wet and dripping all over Sam's bed and not his own. Which. Good.

**

Sometime in the night, he woke up as Sam settled back beside him, tugging a blanket over them. He nestled into Dean's side and holy god, did he smell like a distillery, which reminded Dean how they'd gotten here in the first place.

"What in the hell, Sam," he managed. Noticing it was dark. Sam must have turned the light off, too.

"Hmmm?" Sam mumbled.

"Drink," Dean said. "Why'd you drink so much?" Broke one of his hard and fast rules: don't ask a question unless you really want to know the answer. But the sleep and the sex and Sam overruled him, got the better of his common sense.

"Birthday," Sam murmured into his shoulder.

Dean frowned, trying to think. "S not your birthday, sport."

Sam shook his head. "Birthday," he repeated.

Dean's brain fumbled. "It's not my--?"

Sam sat up, his face hovering unsteadily above Dean's in the dark.

"Jess," he said. "Jess' birthday."

Dean blinked.

Oh.

"Sorry," he said weakly. "Didn't know."

Sam nodded, his eyes fluttering. "Didn't tell you," he said, his voice thick. He sagged, dropped his head back onto Dean's shoulder. Sighed. Slept.

Dean struggled with this information as sleep tugged his sleeve, pulled him back over. How many other timebombs were there? How long would he be tripping over parts of Sam's life that he didn't know about? That he couldn't protect Sam from.

For a long time. Maybe forever.

But forever could wait. At least until the sun came up.

For now, he was there. And Sam was there. And that was enough.


End file.
